Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John Walker, the harried assistant of a U.S. congressman during the week, has a weekend hobby of browsing antique shops, thrift stores, and, his most favorite of all, garage sales for the best steals he can find. Politics are messy and convoluted (especially when the guy you work for is ninety-nine-point-nine percent possibly doing insider trading and a bunch of other bad stuff John pointedly keeps his nose out of), so the whole “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure” thing really helps him de-stress after a long week.

He lives off of Green Tuft Lane in the suburbs of Queens, New York, though he’s never understood what the hell a green tuft is and who the idiot is that decided to name his street that, but he got the small one-storey house, a replica of a Frank Lloyd Wright creation, for pretty cheap considering his shitty credit (he really wishes his parents would’ve told him how to handle credit cards better; like, sat down him and his two sisters and said, build your credit history, kids). 

Thus, due to this steady line of dominos falling in a neat, depressing little row, John Walker, thirty-four-and-three-quarters, works for a shady politician that pays him handsomely to keep his mouth shut and lives on a street with a stupid name in a rickety house with barely enough room for the span of his shoulders, scraping by on his mortgage and left with not nearly enough time to find a decent enough guy to take home to his parents’ on holidays and share the rickety shithole and its payments with him. So, as you can imagine, his mellow weekend hobby really lightens the load placed on him. 

And this is exactly how he meets Bob Reynolds for the first time: on a sweltering New York Saturday, an otherwise ordinary day, but for John Walker, it’s the Saturday that changes the trajectory of his entire life in a single instance. 

*

The community garage sale his neighborhood is hosting, a bi-yearly occurrence, runs on Saturday and Sunday from seven in the morning to one in the afternoon. Now, John Walker is not a weekend early bird by any means, but he’s been to enough summertime garage sales in his lifetime to know they’re hosted that early so the community can do their best to beat the heat and get their shopping done before the heat of the day hits. 

Knowing how the system works, he forces himself awake with a handful of obnoxious shrill alarms at six forty on Saturday morning. He skips breakfast, instead going straight for an extra bitter small cup of espresso from his coffee maker he bought at the last garage sale he went to, throwing on a faded Georgia Bulldogs tee from his college days and a pair of khaki shorts, double-knotting the white thick-soled sneakers on his feet. He hops in his car, his shitbox station wagon passed from two of the Walker sisters down to him he can’t bear to part with because every dent and scratch on it is earned, steeped in history and stories, and because it’s the last thing he owns to set him apart from the corporate hacks at his job, then begins to drive around looking for open garages. He finds none in his section of the neighborhood, so he heads north to the section with the pizza joint he always walks to on nights his insomnia acquired in the military sinks its claws in and won’t let go, hoping to get lucky there. 

He smiles winningly when he passes not one, not two, not three, but four sales happening a street over from the pizza joint, driving to the end of the street to turn around and circle back– but stops the car dead center in the middle of the road when he looks fleetingly to the side and has to do a double take at the sale happening at the last house on the right side of the street, a sprawling two-storey that has a man on the younger side sitting in front of it, probably early thirties, so young he must’ve inherited it from relatives or something. 

The sale itself isn’t far off from the others; in the driveway there’s tables with books, cassettes, outdated electronics and VHS tapes spread out, as well as an entire other large table with action figures spread out that look like they must’ve cost a fortune. There’s also, oddly enough, a clothing rack full of Hawaiian shirts in what looks like every possible color. 

But that’s not why John parks his car in the middle of the goddamn street. The reason he does is because the guy running the sale is so fucking hot it makes him weak in the knees and he hasn’t even gotten out of the car yet.

Aforementioned guy running the sale is sitting loose-limbed and lazy in a lawn chair pulled up in just the right place to catch the lingering shade away from the heat that the open garage provides, soda can in his hand that he takes the occasional smiling sip from, navy ball cap backwards on his head with long, artfully tousled brown curls peeking out from underneath it. He’s shirtless and it’s obvious without needing to flex the guy has abs, and his biceps are defined gorgeously in a way that makes John want to weep , he’s got a thin silver chain hanging just above a pair of sickly sweet dusted rosy nipples he’d kill a man– no, several men – to get his mouth on, and he’s wearing tiny jean shorts that show off his muscled thighs like something out of his wet dreams. But the guy also has a pink nose from sunburn in a way that shouldn’t be as adorable as it is and he’s waving at John’s car enthusiastically like a golden retriever.

John sighs heavily, white-knuckles his steering wheel, mutters, “Jesus fucking Christ” under his breath, then takes a courageous breath that’s all false bravado and steps out of the car. 

As he approaches, Garage Sale Guy says, “Good morning!” 

John nods back politely, deciding on the spot that he might as well not ogle the poor man and take a look at what he’s offering for sale instead. 

He walks slowly around each table and the clothing rack, and after a few minutes of silent perusing he finds that the guy’s collection of authentic seventies Star Trek paperbacks are calling to him. 

“See something you like?” Garage Sale guy asks encouragingly, smiling so big and disarmingly it punches the breath out of John’s chest. 

Fuck. A smile as pretty as that one should be illegal in all fifty states.  

“Yeah,” John calls back to him, idly flipping through one of the books, not paying attention to what he’s saying before it’s too late. “You. How much are you going for?” 

John looks up, embarrassed beyond belief, to see the guy’s face go pink all over (and tries like hell not to take note that he flushes all the way down his chest), so flustered he nearly spits out some of his soda.

“Sorry, what?” Garage Sale Guy asks once he successfully swallows his soda, head tilted cutely in confusion. 

And, look. It’s just past seven on a Saturday morning, John Walker has oodles of caffeine pumping through his system, and he’s just run into the prettiest man he’s ever seen that wasn’t in a porno or some kind of unattainable celebrity completely by happenstance, so he figures he cannot, under any circumstances, fuck this up. 

“Oh my god,” he gasps, holding both hands up in a surrendering kind of gesture to hopefully placate him, “I’m so sorry it came out like that, I wasn’t thinking. But, on the complete off-chance that you do swing my way–” he raises his eyebrows suggestively, “I will quite literally buy everything you’re selling here if it means I get to take you out sometime.” 

Garage Sale Guy –fuck, he really needs to learn his name– opens and closes his mouth a few times like a fish out of water, but no sound comes out. John really can’t blame him. Who the fuck tries to ask someone out at a community garage sale?

Okay, he’s gotta fix this. He’s definitely verging into looking-like-an-axe-murderer territory and he doesn’t want this guy to freak the fuck out on him. 

“Hey, man,” John calls as the guy still sits there frozen, soda can untouched in his hand, “don’t worry about it. I’m sorry I bothered you, please pretend I never said anything–”

“Pick me up on Friday at eight,” Garage Sale Guy cuts him off smoothly, frozen face slowly stretching into a smirk as he downs the rest of his soda and exposes the long (and probably very mark-able) column of his throat in the process. 

“Oh, and my name’s Bob. Bob Reynolds,” he grins, winking playfully at him. 

John is so fucked. 

*

They do, in fact, go out on Friday night. John makes sure to pick Bob up at eight sharp, not a second late, and wears a polo and the six inch inseam khaki shorts he asks him to wear over text with more than one suggestive phallic emoji that he acts innocent and completely denies when teased about it to his face. They go to a bar that has axe throwing, and John gets all up in Bob’s space when he claims he’s never done it before, pressing himself to his back and gently correcting his form to teach him. They work at it until Bob hits the bullseye dead-on, and he happily gives John kisses between each throw as thanks for teaching him how to do it. He also is a lightweight and gets all pliant and warm and loose as the night goes on, full of happy giggles and hands that try more than once to travel dangerously south, and it takes every bone in John Walker’s body not to maul that sweet boy like he’s itching to. 

At the end of the night, John drives Bob home and tucks him into bed, even going so far as to carry him up the stairs on piggyback when he can’t walk up them on his own. He tries to drag John into bed with him, begging and pleading with those long lashes and that pouty little mouth, but John listens to his head and not his dick for once and tells him to call him tomorrow when he wakes up. He plugs his phone in on the nightstand, leaves a glass of cold water and aspirin for the headache that’s sure to rear its ugly head and drives home with an idiotic grin stretched across his face. 

*

At the second community garage sale in the fall, John is the only one sitting in the very same lawn chair at the house at the end of the street, his boyfriend inside the house popping out every now and then to offer him snacks and lemonade with that sweet smile. 

John gets a few curious inquiries about who Bob is, but he’s quick to shut them down. “Oh, him? Don’t worry about it,” he tells the handful of other men that ask, a sharp gleam in his eye hinting at something menacing that has them all backing off instantly.

*

Bob doesn’t join John in the community garage sale mingling again until just shy of three years later, proudly bearing the Walker last name, their marriage certificate hung on the fireplace mantle, the two of them sitting happily in matching lawn chairs with matching gold bands on their left hands side by side. 

*

John, true to his word, did buy every item Bob was selling at that garage sale three years ago. When he moves into Bob’s house inherited from his since-passed on parents, he turns the spare bedroom into a display room, showcasing every book, cassette, VHS tape and even the foray of Hawaiian shirts like it’s a museum exhibit. 

When he shows the room to Bob as a surprise on their one year wedding anniversary, he laughs and tells John he really didn’t need to keep all this junk. But John smiles, kisses him sweetly, and says, “Baby, all this ‘junk’ led me to you. The day I get rid of it is the day I die.” 

*

In the end, Bob collects more nerd memorabilia that he sells online between the bi-yearly community garage sales, and it all sells for so much money that he’s set for life at the young age of thirty-four-and-three-quarters. John, now thirty-seven, only quits his job when he sees the billions with a ‘B’ in their joint bank account, and it’s not a moment too soon because the congressman goes to prison just shy of two months later for all kinds of shady shit. 

John keeps his beloved station wagon, though, and he happily drags Bob around hand-in-hand to antique shops and thrift stores and garage sales on the weekends, opening his wallet for anything he so much as looks twice at; he spoils him rotten, shamelessly so, and they’re so in love that the rest of the world thinks they’re disgusting. 

And to think, it’s all because of a community garage sale.

Chapter Text

No one ever prepares you for what to do when you become an accidental billionaire overnight. They don’t have a masterclass for the uber-rich where they sit you down and say, Here’s what we do and what we don’t. It’s a bit like tying your shoes: everyone does it their way and pretends like they don’t judge the way you do it, but they totally do. 

Bob figures this out for the first time when, two years into his marriage with John Walker, he takes note of the way he looks in pink panties and matching thigh-high socks– and by “take note,” he means the blond practically tears them off his body right in the middle of the lingerie store– and every employee eyed them with obvious aversion the second they entered the place. 

Bob laughs at the way John’s warm, large hands bruisingly grip his waist in the changing room, though, tucking the span of his much larger ex-military body into Bob’s small, lean frame, sucking kisses and marks into his neck like he’s trying to eat him alive. He’s always been good at getting him out of his head, most times without even realizing it.

“You do realize,” he says through gasps as John keeps kissing and lightly scraping at the hinge of his jaw, “I can buy everything in this store, right? Like, you understand we can have unlimited panties for you to rip off of me, preferably not in a public space?”

John’s only response is to honest-to-god growl into Bob’s neck and suck on his neck harder, so much harder he lets out an embarrassing mewl and has to use every ounce of strength his body doesn’t possess and shove him off of him. 

“Okay,” Bob smirks, breathing heavily as he takes in the obscene tent in John’s pants and his blue eyes so steeped in arousal they’ve turned black, “I’ll put it on the black card. Wait here.”

*

They have their errand boys bring all the bags into the house for them, and by the time it’s all unloaded there’s twenty-six total bags of every type of lingerie the store made, all in Bob’s sizing. 

John is looking around at all the bags lined up neatly in their living room just off the foyer with wide overwhelmed eyes, like he has no idea what he wants Bob to try on first. Bob, though, knows exactly what bag he’s going to first. 

He goes to a bag towards the end of the multiple neat rows, picks it up and swings it in his hand as he walks by John towards the bedroom, whistling cheerily as he goes.

“Baby?” John calls after him, confusion coloring his voice. 

Bob reaches the bedroom then the master bathroom, smirking as he calls back, “I’ll call you when I’m ready!”

And then he locks the bathroom door behind him, changing into what he knows will be his husband’s ultimate wet dream. 

*

He calls for John about ten or so minutes later, but warns him strictly to keep his eyes closed as he enters the bedroom and tells him to sit on the bed. John teases him like hell, all, “Jesus, what are you hiding from me, baby? You buy something super naughty when I wasn’t looking?”

Bob huffs a laugh and looks at himself in the mirror, adjusting the delicate lace on his skin. He’s wearing an indigo lingerie set, a see-through lace bralette on his chest, a garter belt around his stomach that flows daintily into a G-string thong and accompanying thigh garters resting just above his knees, cute heart cutouts high up on each of his thighs just below his Adonis belt. When he turns around, the G-string fills out more into panties with a heart cutout directly in the middle of his ass, and two small strings snake down his legs to connect to the garters above his knees. To top it all off he’s got a matching indigo ribbon tied around his neck, and a gift box in his hands holds a surplus of extra ribbon for John to tie him up as he sees fit. 

He takes a deep breath, shakes out his nerves, then exits the bathroom.

He’s met with his husband obediently waiting for him on the bed, hands at his sides loosely, eyes shut. Bob walks over to him and sinks down into his lap, setting the box of ribbon down on the bed next to them. John’s hands instinctively move to his waist, cupping his waist securely.

“Hi,” he whispers shyly.

He’s always been good, so damn good, at riling up John Walker, but he’s helpless at sticking the landing. He has a hard time initiating things in the bedroom, even after being married so long; he just doesn’t know how to talk the talk and walk the walk, the way John so effortlessly does.

“Hey, sweets,” John whispers back, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, “can I open my eyes now?”

Bob gives him a chaste peck on the tip of his nose and tells him, “Okay, open,” and watches John Walker’s brain go completely offline in real time.

“Oh my fucking god,” he rasps out, taking in the lace all over Bob’s body, lightly exploring some of it with an experimental touch, “you are not real. I swear to Christ I dreamt you up, honey.” 

Bob smiles. “Oh, yeah? Well, if I was just a dream, could I do this?" He grinds his hips down hard and sinful in John’s lap, biting back a grin when John tosses back his head and moans loudly. He tucks his head into his neck, shuddering with need as he feels his husband's cock fill up underneath him. 

“What’s your color, sweets?” John asks gently, one large palm rubbing the dip in his back possessively. 

“Green, Mr. Walker,” Bob responds, hushed, trying further to tuck himself into John as far as he can go. Of course, after two years of marriage, John figures out what Bob is trying to do, knows he has a tendency to want to hide himself away when he’s nervous (and especially so when they’re in the bedroom), so he starts pressing little kisses to the crown of his head, murmuring sweet things to him to get him to come out. John, no matter what, likes to see Bob’s face more than anything, likes to see every little reaction he can get out of him. 

“Oh, baby,” John coos, his thumb stroking soothingly down the curve of Bob’s spine, “you’re just a shy little thing, aren’t you? What’s the matter, huh? Afraid my wife will come home and find us like this, you in your pretty outfit you wore just for me, draped like a little whore all over my lap? Is that it, honey?”

Bob whimpers pathetically and nods into John’s neck, hands fisting his t-shirt right above his heart, so overjoyed that he didn’t have to tell his husband what he wanted, that he just automatically knew. He knows Bob likes to pretend sometimes that John isn’t all his, that the front the blond puts on for him is his favorite thing they do when they’re intimate, that he can’t get enough of the sweet way he treats him in this scenario. 

John chuckles under his breath and slides his hands up to the back of Bob’s little bralette, unclasping it and slowly, ever so slowly easing it down his arms, Bob helping him in sliding it off altogether.

“Would you look at that,” John smiles, gentle encouragement in his voice. “Aren’t you just the most precious thing I ever did see? Oh, sweets, look at those pretty tits on display, all for fuckin’ me. Say it for me, now.”

John lightly eases Bob out from his hiding place, sending him a soft smile as their eyes meet. His skin is on fire, he’s cool with nervous sweat and he must look like a goddamn amateur, the kid at the party with a neon sign on his forehead that says VIRGIN, but he’s gonna be good for John. His head is a little fuzzy and his cock is throbbing from neglect, but Bob pushes the issue forcibly to the side to follow instructions. 

“These p-pretty tits are all f-for you, Mr. Walker,” Bob blushes, ducking his head in embarrassment when the affirmation splits John’s lips into a pleased, if a pinch smug, grin. 

“That’s right, baby,” John coos, putting a hand under Bob’s chin to force him to keep eye contact. “That’s very good, honey.” 

Bob whines again, squirming in John’s lap, hating and loving the way he holds him to the spot like a butterfly pinned to a board. Because here’s what they didn’t warn him about John Walker, the day they met at the garage sale years ago: he is courageous and whip-smart and witty and uses all three traits to melt Bob down in his hands like chocolate on a hot summer’s day. 

“Thank you,” Bob says quietly, trying to keep eye contact with John despite his nerves. He likes Bob best when he leans into the praise, his likes and dislikes, his deepest desires here where it's just the two of them. It had taken a long while for Bob to fully understand that what they do is theirs, and he's safe in wanting what he wants. With everything they've tried during sex – bondage, gags, collars, whips, paddles, virtually every roleplay under the sun, a plethora of toys, and much more – he knows what he wants now, and he knows John would bend over backwards to give it to him.

John huffs a laugh, hands trailing down to his garter belt. Down here his touch is more skittish, less practiced, and Bob knows what that means; he's gonna get some lace ripped off his body soon. 

“Now,” he faux-wonders aloud to himself, fingers petting the skin of Bob’s hips, “does my pretty thing want to keep anything else on before I rip it off?” 

Bob surprises himself by letting out a breathy, high-pitched moan, nodding eagerly. “Wan’ to keep the garters on, M-Mr. Walker.” 

John nods mutely and takes Bob’s G-string in his hands, ripping it off his body with his strong bare grip. He's left now with his garter belt and attached thigh garters, as well as his dainty ribbon collar, his own cock hanging heavy and exposed between his legs. He flushes deeply when he sees John’s gaze caught there, a wicked gleam in his eyes like a kid trying to peek inside his presents on Christmas morning. 

“D-do you like what you see, Mr. Walker?” Bob asks timidly, circling his hands around John’s neck in a nervous lack of anywhere else to put them. 

John smiles and kisses the corner of his mouth sweetly. “Oh, sweets,” he sighs almost dreamily, one of his big hands reaching down to trace the line of Bob’s cock from root to tip, choking on a laugh when it jumps under his touch, “‘like’ is an understatement. You're fucking perfect, baby.” 

Bob flushes even deeper and forces himself to look John in the eye again to ask for what he really, really wants, what he couldn't get out of his head in the lingerie store: “Will you fuck me up against the wall? Pretty please, Mr. Walker?” 

John lets out an animalistic growl and pulls Bob into a rough kiss, beard scratching his chin in the most beautiful way. He licks his way deviously into Bob's mouth, kissing him so deeply he swallows the pathetic loud moans he can't bite back. 

John pulls back and bumps their foreheads together, breathing heavily. “Fuck. Yeah, sweetheart, Mr. Walker can do that for you. Hang on tight for me, love.” 

Bob nods and tightens his grip around John's neck, who then picks him up like he weighs nothing and walks them to the nearest wall, pressing his back into it gently. Once they're there, John’s lips return to his mouth and Bob instinctually wraps his legs around John's waist, ankles crossing around his back. John grins into the kiss, and Bob knows what he's thinking: I trained him well. 

Sure enough, when they part for air, John whispers into his panting mouth, “Trained you so well, honey. Look how I don't even have to tell you what to do anymore. My perfect boy.” 

Bob blushes and bites his lip as he meets John's gorgeous blue eyes, waiting for him to make the next call. 

“Color, baby.” 

“Green,” Bob sighs, fingers stroking the little hairs at John’s nape. “Like, the most neon shade of green ever.” 

John laughs a little and presses little kisses to Bob’s cheeks softly, eyes giving away his devotion. Bob really doesn't know how he landed such an amazing man for a life partner, but he's eternally grateful to that goddamn garage sale because of it. 

“Okay, sweets,” John says, “gonna spread this cute little cunt open on my fingers now, hm?” 

Bob whines again and nods frantically. “‘Kay, Mr. Walker.” 

John smiles and holds his hand up to Bob's lips, shifting his hold so his left arm holds his weight. It really should not be so fucking hot, the idea that his husband can hold all of him with one goddamn arm, but Bob's brain has been short-circuiting since John Walker waltzed into his life, so he figures he’s been undone over less. 

“Spit,” he commands, and Bob obediently spits into his hand. John wedges a knee between his legs, spreading him wider, and he suppresses a yelp when he feels one of his skilled fingers circling his rim. 

“Easy, love,” John winks as he feels Bob clench on instinct, a sign that he's not happy about being empty and would like to be filled up as soon as humanly possible, “let Mr. Walker take care of this sweet little cunt.” 

Bob nods, gulping in a breath as John pushes the tip of his index finger inside, moaning involuntarily at how keyed-up he is. 

John grins like a shark smelling blood in the water and eases his digit in more bit by bit, not stopping until he's in up to his knuckle. Bob’s eyes practically roll back in his head at the thought of John being strong enough to hold him up against the wall and fuck him on his fingers at the same time, and he must sense how much that turns him on because his husband starts cooing sweet things humiliatingly at him. 

“Oh, sweet boy, look at you losing it over how I take care of you. You need more, honey? Need Mr. Walker to make you feel good before my wife comes home, fuck you nice and full of my come? Would you like that, sweetheart?” 

And, even more humiliatingly, his dick twitches enthusiastically at his sweet talk, which just makes John throw his head back and laugh. It's really not fair that he can be so in control like this, with Bob opened up on his finger and held up against the wall solely with his strength. 

“Okay, honey, you just turn off that pretty little head of yours and let Mr. Walker make it feel better. Gonna make it all better. Promise, sweetheart.” 

Bob nods with a choked-off whimper as John thrusts his finger in and out until he finds a rhythm he’s seemingly satisfied with, and then he’s thrusting another in, so unexpectedly Bob cries out. 

John chuckles darkly and doesn’t let up on his hole, scissoring him open quickly but steadily. “That’s right, sweets,” he sighs satisfactorily when he hits Bob’s prostate and he yelps, “you’re gonna take my cock so good. Your tight cunt’s gonna feel so precious when I’m inside you, baby.”

“C’mon, Mr. Walker, wan’ it so bad, gonna be so goddamn good for you–” 

John shifts Bob’s weight to his forearm, freeing his left hand which he uses to smack his ass, hard, and then shifts his weight back– with his fingers still fucking inside him. John Walker is unreal.

“Good boys watch their language,” he bites, and as if mentally deciding to punish him some more John quickens the drag of his fingers as they move in and out of his hole, and then adds a third when he’s loose enough. The stretch is delicious, forcing a punched-out moan from Bob’s chest that John leans in and swallows eagerly with his mouth, a hungry clash of teeth and tongues. 

“What’s your color, sweetheart?” He asks when they part, foreheads pressed together, John’s fingers still working his most intimate place open. 

“ O-oh, green,” Bob moans, lashes fluttering against his cheeks, sweat dripping down his face. 

John finally removes his fingers from his hole and Bob opens his eyes right at the perfect time to catch him spitting hurriedly into his hand and slicking the wetness over his dick, which makes him mewl like a fucking kitten. John looks up and winks at him, and Bob doesn’t have time to respond because in the next second he feels the tip of his cock teasing his entrance, both his strong hands coming up to firmly grasp his hips, tucking his face into Bob’s neck to suck sweet marks into his pulse point. 

“You ready for my cock now, sweets? Hm?” He whispers into his sweat-slick skin, grinning when Bob gives his consent.

“Ready, Mr. Walker.” 

“Take a deep breath for me, baby,” John instructs, not moving a muscle until he watches Bob obey him. He nods in approval after he does, tightens his hold on his hips, and begins to sink his length inside him.

They both groan at the same time when John enters his hole, the feeling so exquisite it’s almost overwhelming before it’s really even begun.

“ Fuck, this sweet cunt feels so good around my cock, honey,” John grunts when he’s inside to the hilt, resting his forehead against Bob’s to give them both a chance to catch their breath.

“So big, so f-full, Mr. Walker,” Bob whispers shyly back, blushing fiercely when it gets a laugh out of John– that quickly turns into a moan from the way his cock shifts slightly inside him. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” John promises, giving the tip of his nose a soft little peck that makes him giggle. 

“Okay, ‘m ready,” Bob says after another deep breath, and John nods with a smile and begins to fuck him. He’s not slow, either; he’s fast and rough, and the whiplash has Bob throwing his head back into the wall and moaning long and loud to the ceiling. 

“That’s my fuckin’ boy," John growls into his ear as he fucks him, “takin’ what I give ‘im, lettin’ me use this tight, pretty little cunt.”

John shifts his angle a bit, bending one of Bob’s legs so his knee is up to his chest and the angle means he’s hitting his prostate dead-on, making him wail. 

“I’m Mr. Walker’s b-boy,” Bob sobs, sparks traveling up his spine from the ruthless non-stop barrage of his sweet spot, too cock-drunk to think about anything but trying not to come before John gives him permission.

John grunts in affirmation and keeps growling sweet, dirty things into his ear, practically bouncing him up and down on his cock like a ragdoll, but Bob can’t hear any of it, can only focus on how ridiculously good he feels, his toes curling at the intensity of the orgasm building in his lower stomach.

He thinks he calls out to warn John that he’s close, but he doesn’t know what he says back because he doubles down on his pace and starts fucking him harder and deeper, biting down on the shell of his ear and roaring into it as his orgasm hits, filling Bob’s hole up with his release.

Bob barely has time to process it because then he’s coming, so hard he screams, his own spend falling all over his chest in little white rivulets. He thinks he has time to breathe but then he screams again, a loud repetition of “Oh no, no no no no,” because he’s not done coming, more come spurting onto his chest to join the previous. He stares at his cock in astonished horror, not even aware that he could do that.

He sighs in relief when it’s finally over, sagging limp and useless in John’s arms. John chuckles and, tenderly pulling out of him, kisses the top of his head as Bob hangs onto him like a koala bear, walking them both to the bathtub. 

*

Bob isn’t sure how long he dozes for, his back pressed to John’s front in their enormous clawfoot tub, floating somewhere far away and sickly sweet, but he slowly comes to with the sound of John’s voice in his ear, cooing soft compliments to him, pressing gentle kisses to the crown of his head. 

“Hi,” he whispers timidly when he’s all the way back, snuggling deeper into John’s chest. 

“Hi, love,” John whispers back, grin apparent in his voice even to Bob’s closed eyes, “did you have fun?” 

“Mmm,” Bob hums sleepily, nuzzling into the hair of John’s chest. “Did you?”

John laughs. “Had the time of my life, sweetheart. Always do when you let me rip somethin’ pretty off of you.”

Bob laughs, beginning to sing the signature Dirty Dancing song under his breath, which has John playfully snarking,  "Why did I marry you again?” 

Bob giggles and throws his thigh over John’s hip, sinking down into his lap to straddle him into the warm water. “Something about me being the best thing you ever found at a garage sale, I dunno.”

John rolls his eyes but his heart’s not in it when he replies, pulling Bob in for a slow kiss, “Ah, that’s right. Got you for a steal, too.”

Bob takes the bait, foolishly, because he is one goddamn fool in love when it comes to John Walker. “That right?”

John nods sagely, keeping his mischievous expression carefully schooled away when he says, “Yep. Had ten dollars to spend, and it was either you or an old woman’s life-size cutout of Kevin Costner in Dances with Wolves. Sometimes I wonder if the cutout would’ve been the better option, though.”

Bob’s playful smack to his bicep, along with their conjoined laughter, echoes happily off the bathroom walls.